


Tides of Vengeance

by holhorsinaround



Series: Tides of Vengeance [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Other, Pining, canon events, coming to terms with inevitables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 06:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17340581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holhorsinaround/pseuds/holhorsinaround
Summary: "This is... you could die, Tyrande. There has to be something else you could do-- you cannot--""I did not ask you here to dissuade me, my love. And I won't let you do so."





	1. Tyrande's Summons

Alar glanced down at the letter under his and Jadearra's door, slid into the crack of her mail slot. It had not been there when Jadearra left, otherwise she'd had moved it to their table. It instead sat askew on their door mat, addressed simply with his name in a rather plain style.  
  
Upon opening it, he had been met with a rather brief letter.  
_Alar--_  
_I remember you once promised to return a favor to me. I'm staying in a small, secluded area, within Darkshore, near to its Ashenvale border. I know you can find me. Will you come?_  
  
_Please._  
_You are the only person I can trust today._  
  
  
A strange, impossible feeling had swept through him at the last line. Of course he had recognized the penmanship. And he was torn-- surely Malfurion was part of these plans. Why wouldn't she trust him? ...But then again, maybe she did not. He thought of the last he'd heard from her-- seen her. It was on Teldrassil, in Darnassus. She had run into him while he had been helping Kaldorei escape the fire.  
  
She had been surprised, but had immediately seen through his illusion. He had been even more surprised, to be recognized in the capital during such dire circumstances. To be left behind helping save _her_ people.  
  
She had told him she needed to tend to Malfurion, he was going to get himself killed. The last thing he'd said to her was calling her a coward, abandoning her people for him. She had simply looked back at him, pausing in her step, her smile sad. He had regretted his words, seeing that expression on her face.  
  
He'd stood there, feeling it necessary to run to her, to pull her back, but he'd let her go and watched her walk off between the flames and smoke. He hadn't seen her, hadn't heard from her since.  
  
The letter though... she still trusted him. It pulled at his emotions and for a moment he thought ill of her, twisting at his worry and his feelings. How dare she turned into why would she, and then became even more muddled under the desire to go after her once more.


	2. Into Darkshore

Later that night, after the search parties had started and after it had become news that Tyrande and Malfurion were both missing, he'd grabbed his bag, the cloak Jadearra had given him for his birthday barely a week prior, and set out to find a mage willing to portal him as close as he was comfortable with to Darkshore. He had decided on a small village in Ashenvale, tipped the mage double what he normally would do, and stepped into the portal.  
  
Once arriving, crickets and wolves sounding around him and nausea burning in his stomach and throat, he gave himself time to rest against a tree outside of town, hood over his face. He didn't want to be seen, necessarily, so with Bethekk's gift of shadow walking he had slipped into the blackness surrounding the forest line.  
  
He smelled smoke, and sure enough beyond the horizon among the full moon was the color of grey, foggy smoke. Darkshore was just beyond, and beyond that still was the faint embers of the world tree, still glowing as she burned. A somber, immense sadness overpowered him, fear of that day rising back into his mind. It had been frightening, more frightening than damn near anything he'd gone through up to this point in his life.  
  
He took a deep breath in and began the trek through Ashenvale to Darkshore.

*****

He had stalked past Astranaar, Bethekk rest their very souls. He hadn't been present during the sacking of the village, but not many buildings still stood. Abandoned, ash and coals strewn about, he had heard that it had happened the same day they took Teldrassil.  
  
Sadness once more welled up in him as he walked past the burned village, his eyes refusing to look up at the buildings, what was left. He knew people who had been present, who had stalked through Astranaar and into Darkshore, who had thrown those very torches that lit the world tree.  
  
That sadness was replaced; a hot, burning hatred began to build in his veins. What good had it done? What had it done for anybody? It wasn't right. And those blindly following Sylvanas... they were following her to their death. An unnecessary death lacking pride or honor.

*****

As he crept closer to Darkshore, he let the illusion fall away. He was confident in his abilities to stalk the shadows. He admittedly... had no idea where to find Tyrande. He knew he was growing near, as he'd almost made it to the border of the two lands, but...

After an hour's search, he hadn't found her. He'd found... remnants, potentials, tracks. But he hadn't found her.  
  
He had persisted, continuing onward. He stalked past the Horde camps, sticking to the treeline when he could, carefully traversing the cracks within the earth. He came upon a rise, a broken hill, and from the top of it was a glow. Faint, low to the grasses, almost obscurred.  
  
He began to climb the hill, surprised to find Tyrande standing there out in the open. She didn't turn as he approached, and instead kept her hands folded in front of her waist, her eyes up toward the moon overhead.  
  
It was silent, a few moments too long of silence that began to fill with chatter-- crickets, insects-- before she finally spoke. Her voice was quiet, barely a whisper.  
  
"I thought you wouldn't come, Alar."  
  
"How could I not?"


	3. The Ritual of the Night Warrior

They walked quietly together, filling each other in on a few things here and there. She led, knowing exactly where she was going, and Alar let her. They avoided groups of people-- both Alliance and Horde-- and skirted edges of camps, staying to treelines when they could, Alar pulling Tyrande under his cloak when they were unable to. As they reached Bashal'aran, however, Tyrande led him back against the trees.  
  
"Alar." She paused, and a tremor went through him. The tone she spoke... it made him afraid.  
  
"Alar... you don't know why I wanted to come here, do you?" They came to a full rest with her leaning against him, still under his cloak. She appeared downcast, and with them this close, her speaking, he came to realize that she held hear own fears. She trembled, speaking hardly loud enough to be heard.  
  
He let a slow breath out, but shook his head. His words came easily with no second thoughts, no hesitation. "...No. But I know you asked for me to aid you. And I know I promised that, when you needed me, I would be here."

*****

She began to explain the ritual; in depth descriptions of past attempts, what had happened to those who tried and failed. The little history known on how to do it, who had succeeded, who hadn't. She explained why she wished to do this, what her fears were. Did Malfurion know? he had asked. No, she answered. Not yet.  
  
They had found themselves sitting, hidden by brush and tree trunks, tall grasses. His arm was around her, and both had wrapped his cloak around each other to keep the chilled air from the ocean out. It had gone from her explanations to her inner confessions, ones she hadn't yet voiced to anybody.  
  
"I... fear what may happen, Alar."  
  
"After telling me everything about the ritual, do you still wish to attempt it?"  
  
She was quiet. "...Yes." She paused, and he started to say more, but she interrupted him. "But... Alar, there is... There's another aspect I have neglected to tell you."  
  
He looked to her; what had she neglected? "Tell me, Tyrande."  
  
She hesitated, and this time Alar reached under their shared cloak to grasp her hand.  
  
"Those... who are near when I perform it will be at risk. And since they are at risk, they may not survive. ...Maiev, Malfurion..." Her voice lowered, barely a whisper. "...And you, Alar. And... I would hate if something were to happen to you."  
  
Now he understood; those who had tried, then failed? Not all had attempted the ritual at once... they had been present, witnesses. They had suffered, overcome by the extreme, raw power that Elune provided. No wonder she was afraid. It was desperation. It was madness. Foolhardy, even.  
  
But it was courageous. And... even if he knew that his own people's history was wrought with war and jealousy and hatred for the Kaldorei, and them with he and his own... sitting with Tyrande, speaking with her, holding her...  
  
"This is... you could die, Tyrande. There has to be something else you could do-- you cannot--"  
  
"I did not ask you here to dissuade me, my love. And I won't let you do so."  
  
His jaw locked. He pressed his lips together and bowed his head.  
  
"Then... I will be by your side. And what comes, will come."  
  
She turned to him, her eyes wide. "Alar... no-- I don't want you by me. I don't want you at the ritual."  
  
He felt confused, troubled by her words. "Then why did you ask me here?"  
  
"I..." He gazed back down at her, frowning. He felt her squeeze his hand, but she turned away from him, voice growing quiet. "I wished to see you in case I failed."  
  
He too looked down, a pang in his chest. It was funny; for two who stood so far apart, and were so different in their lives, in this moment he felt truly one with her. More so than that night in the barrow den a year before, more than ever. All hatred and all anger he felt toward her when he'd met with her in Teldrassil... well, it was gone.  
  
He swallowed, his lips parting. He wet them with his tongue before he spoke, this time in shaky Darnassian.  
  
"Then... _tor ilisar'thera'nal_."


	4. Elune's Grace

They had sat in silence for much longer at that point. She hadn't responded to his statement verbally. They stayed under his cloak, her head on his shoulder.  
  
Finally, she broke the silence.  
  
"Alar... the last time we were together for an extensive amount of time... I know that you're Light sensitive. And... Elune will... she's not Light, necessarily, but..." He understood her intention behind her words. _She would destroy you._  
  
Yes... even he was foolhardy. This was no longer about the favors, no longer about the promise to assist her. She was his friend, a genuine friend. The night they had shared together, the subsequent accidental run ins, and even the last time they had spoken, back in Darnassus, as Teldrassil burned around them.  
  
This time, he was the one to lower his eyes, to speak quietly.  
  
"Then help me. Ready me for Elune's grace."

*****

They held their own private ritual, right out there in the woods together. Tyrande had thought it over, quiet and in her own head, for nearly an hour. And then she came back with an idea; the women of her culture marked themselves when they came of age. They would display to the world who they were through very specific facial markings that denoted their role within Kaldorei structure.  
  
Tyrande began to explain one of them-- one she thought fit Alar, that she thought would allow Elune's protection to him. Claw marks-- three downward at an angle-- over the eyes. They displayed agility, the hunter within. They showed prowess and courage.  
  
She relayed his thoughts back to him; he was a follower, a Devotee of Bethekk. The Panther of the Shadows, and under her he served, black as night and silent, more giving and careful than anybody she had ever met.  
  
Alar listened, patient; he had seen many druids and huntresses with the claw marks across their eyes.  
  
_How are they done?_ They are tattoos, applied as a rite of passage, a transition into a new stage of their lives.  
  
_Do each of them represent something_? Yes, a great many things, all proud and encompassing our best traits.  
  
The more worrying question to him, though...  
_Will she accept me?_

*****

By the time they reached Bashal'aran, he began to feel more confident in what they were going to attempt. They approached the Moonwell in the center of the village and Tyrande led him to kneel. As if in his own ritual, Alar dipped his hands down into the water, let the cool liquid run over his finger tips, and slowly, he began to wash his face.  
  
He thought about Darnassus, then Dolanaar. He thought about sitting there, in front of the moonwell, and washing his hands and face in the clear water. He thought about how he had seen his reflection, that of a Kaldorei at the time, and now he saw himself in the same water, the same spiritual water of Elune, and now he saw himself as a Troll.  
  
The moonlight reflected his features, and his fingers drew across them; his cheekbones, his tusks, across his browline and sideburns. He thought, _this must be how muuka looked, when she was my age and taking on her own path._ Scared, nervous.

She had held him dear, fingers tracing across his face and through his sideburns. It had calmed him because he knew what was about to happen was sacred. He knew she was Elune's chosen.  
  
But it was also nice to be held by her again. Embarrasingly, he'd missed it. That night... it had been a one off happenstance of course, but... he still held it dear. Staring up into her eyes, with her fingers trailing through his hair and over his cheeks, he knew she did, too.

*****

When they began, she had procured a small bowl, hidden in a fold of her robe. It was beautiful, and Alar had spoke hesitance at dirtying it, but she reassured him that if they were going to do this, they should use her altar bowl. He nodded, and as she began to swirl her fingers in the moonwell herself, he brought his own travel altar that Jadearra had given him from his own clothing.  
  
It was filled with a dense, rich dirt that held minerals and properties he only dreamed of, and when it was on his fingers that first time he had been overwhelmed and overjoyed by the rush of emotion that swept through him.  
  
It was nice, though; it was comforting to feel in tune with the world. It didn't happen as it used to, when he was younger, but... that was slowly returning.  
  
This time had been no different. He touched the dirt inside, and as she brought the bowl to him, he spooned just enough in while she spooned moon water over it. She took her fingers and began to mix, instructing him to kneel in front of her and face her.  
  
He did.  
  
He closed his eyes and was met with a gentle kiss against his forehead; he let out a shaky exhale as she set to work. The mud was warm, and he felt it begin to drip across his cheek before she stroked it at an angle, mimicking the shape of claws. Three on each side-- one right down the middle of his eye, two flanking.  
  
As she worked, she spoke quietly in her maiden language to Elune, asking for her grace and for her acceptance. He too did so, speaking in both broken Darnassian, as well as Zandali, both to Elune and to Bethekk. One to accept him, and one to protect him.

It dried, leaving cracks along its surface and tickling his skin.


	5. Becoming a Warrior of the Black Moon

_There she is!_  
  
Tyrande didn't raise her eyes from the stone in front of her. Instead, she continued to call out to Elune, begging and bargaining and pleading. Slowly, her words had become desperate but questioning. And then, accusatory.  
  
And Alar had stood there beside her, not adding anything, but acquainting himself, asking questions, even speaking to Bethekk in his head.  
  
He had considered donning his disguise once more, but Tyrande had assured him. This was the form she wanted. This was the form Elune would accept.  
  
And then Maiev saw him. He heard her shout something in Darnassian, something cruel, then she began to draw her weapon.  
  
And then Tyrande turned her attention to her.  
  
"You will not touch him!" she shouted. Her tone was far different than he'd ever heard her speak before.  
  
Maiev too seemed put off, surprised. And then she lowered her weapon, nodding. "We are with you, Tyrande."

*****

The rest of the ritual continued; Tyrande continued to speak to Elune, mixing the common language with Darnassian, pleading, demanding.  
  
And then Horde soldiers arrived-- orcs carrying polearms and forsaken with crossbows.  
  
Maiev shouted once more, and her, Shandris, and a number of sentinels dispersed, taking them all on. Alar started to rise, but Tyrande held his arm, keeping him with her. He nodded, knelt beside her, and continued. This time, he took on a position of prayer.  
  
  
  
**_I served you for millennia-- but tonight, I do not come as a maiden, a mother, or a priestess--_**  
  
**_Now, I will only serve if you grant me justice!_**  
  
  
  
And then, the world around him burst into shards.

 

He awoke with Maiev near him, Shandris leaning against her, several sentinels around him on the ground. Beside him, kneeling at his side, was Tyrande. She was speaking, but his head was ringing so hard that it drowned out her voice.  
  
He looked up at her, saw her face change from worry to shock, and then he realized-- her eyes had changed. There was no glow of Elune to them.  
  
And behind her... the moon...


	6. Nathanos

The rest of it was a blur-- they fought toward Nathanos at Lor'danel's Landing, but couldn't find him. Instead, Tyrande froze a whole army of forsaken. She demeaned them, and Alar recognized Belmont in the middle of them, shouting back at her. He gave very little of a fight, and it prided Alar to see him fall.  
  
  
  
As they made their way to the beach head, Malfurion joined them. He recognized Alar-- but only because they had once ran into each other in the Dreamgrove. If he hated his presence, he did not say so. If he was perturbed by Alar's condition, he remained quiet.

 

And then they found Nathanos.  
  
And when attacked, Nathanos stole their Kaldorei sentinels. They were raised as Dark Rangers, and they called out to Tyrande. But she did not falter, and Alar fought forward. For the first time in his life, he was grateful for Malfurion's presence. The ringing in his ears continued, but he felt... on point... stronger.  
  
He felt a hatred far greater than he'd ever felt before.  
  
Finally, at one point in the middle of the fight, Alar had his hand against Nathanos' collar. There had been a lull in the fight, and something had distracted the man. He had pulled the forsaken in close, and Nathanos looked him over. Malfurion had fallen after taking a blow to his shoulder.  
  
"You are not true Horde. You might as well be a Kaldorei with how you're defending them."  
  
Alar squinted his eyes at this, bringing the man in close to his face. He sneered, teeth and fangs showing, the blackness of his eyes barely illuminated by what was now a golden cat's iris.  
  
 ** _"I'm not a Kaldorei. I am not loyal to the Horde, either. I am their vengeance and you and Sylvanas will regret this war."_**

 

The battle continued; sentinels were lost and Tyrande was almost taken, but with new abilities and empowered skill, Tyrande brought the darkest night upon them.   
  
Alar and Malfurion lost Nathanos in it, and Brynja fell as Tyrande struck her down, leaving the valkyr in mourning of failure. As the Queen Valkyr fell, Nathanos did not continue. Instead, he pulled back, gathered the few remaining forsaken on his side, and escaped.  
  
  
  
Then, they too departed.


	7. Night Warrior

Once they had returned to Stormwind, and after things had been settled, Tyrande pulled Alar aside.  
  
He had donned his disguise on the way back to the Keep, and once more he was within the form of a Kaldorei. In the light of the library gardens, where small lanterns were hung, he had caught his reflection in the windows to the building. His fingers traced the marks across his face; there were striations in them, where the mud had cracked, and it did not feel as though they were physically there.  
  
His eyes, black as night, did not reflect light, and the golden iris in the center unnerved him.  
  
She had come to stand beside him, reflecting her own change, one that he assumed his mimicked. The library gardens were empty save for them both, and he was grateful.

 

"Why did you leave that day, when Teldrassil burned?"  
  
He had finally asked the question that had remained with him since that day.  
  
She stayed quiet, her eyes on their reflections, as if she hadn't heard him.  
  
"...I was afraid." There was a pause. "And... deeply ashamed that I could have let it happen. I... ran. I ran away Alar."  
  
He kept his eyes on his reflection, not daring to look at hers.  
  
"But... no more." He felt her shift, felt her look up at him. "I will have my vengeance for my people."  
  
He nodded, turning to look down to her. She looked... very different, but still very the same. Soft featured, gentle.  
  
"Thank you, Alar. Thank you, and... I'm sorry. I... had no idea it would..." She paused, her voice being the one to shake this time. "I didn't know it would do this to you."  
  
He turned to look at their reflections once more, and this time reached out to touch the glass. His fingertips traced the marks as they reflected, deep and dark down his cheeks, above his eyebrows.  
  
"No, I made my decision. Elune accepted me, Tyrande, because of you. ...I won't falter. I will see this through and ensure Sylvanas' downfall."

**Author's Note:**

> Much like my piece from pre-Legion, Khadgar's Resistence, this piece takes place within canonical events pertaining to the Tides of Vengeance Kaldorei questline. Yes, Alar is a troll.


End file.
